


Until the Wind Changes

by experimentingwithbackcombing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Mary Poppins (1964), Mary Poppins - P. L. Travers
Genre: F/M, Gen, Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experimentingwithbackcombing/pseuds/experimentingwithbackcombing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In writing this story, I have tried to adhere to the canons of both the Harry Potter and Mary Poppins universes as closely as possible. In spite of rigorous research, the writing of this story still necessitated embellishment, guesswork, and the invention of characters. All characters/objects/events that I have invented within this story will be denoted with (*) at his/her first mention. Because dating pre-Tom Riddle is not as extensively detailed as the rest of Rowling's universe, I have pieced together inferred some dates and characters. I have also incorporated both the film and book canons for Harry Potter, but with greater emphasis on book canon. In this story I have utilized the book universe for Mary Poppins, as it takes place in the 1930s, and allowed for easier dating. Mary Poppin's characterization is based on both the book series by P.L. Travers and the 1964 Disney film starring Julie Andrews.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl with the Carpet Bag

Muggles preferred Sunlight Soap, or that's what she'd heard. Rubbish thing, she thought, washing one's clothes without magic. When she was quite small, her father* had once explained it to her—how Muggle women like his mother would shave off bits of the soap cake to make suds in a great basin, and by hand they would rake the fabric over a washboard, leaving their hands dry and cracked after a long day of scrubbing.

She was never going to do that, she had told her father, because she was a witch, and witches could use magic, so her hands would never get dry and cracked from washing. Her father had chuckled as she sat on his lap. He was a lean man with mousy hair and a large, bushy moustache. Her father had told her that there was once a time when he had lived without magic, before he got his letter from Hogwarts, which had surprised his family very much indeed. They had never heard of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you see.

Mary's mother* was also a witch, so she did the washing by magic. Her mother was very beautiful, a tall, proud woman with the same shiny black hair as Mary's. But Mary's mother had never lived without magic; as far as Mary knew, she had been a witch her entire life, for she always seemed very vexed when her father started talking about the Muggle newspapers, which always seemed to her to sound very dangerous.

::

Mary, now an adult, placed the cake of soap into her bag—a carpet back, one that she'd had the presence of mind to extend years ago when she ran out of room in her school trunk—along with other necessities, most of them painfully non-magical. But she would not be wholly without magic, nor did she ever intend on such a fate. Within the shaft of her umbrella she had inserted her wand, making the apparatus both discreet and uniquely functional.

If she was going to traipse around as a Muggle, she thought she ought to do it properly, having procured the non-magical versions of all her things—hairpins that did not fasten themselves, throat lozenges actually meant to soothe throat tickles instead of those that gave you a lovely singing voice, and a bottle of scent that required constant reapplication.

She sighed. It was all so tedious, really. So wasteful, so much extra work. It was no wonder Muggle women aged so poorly—they spent so much time doing things the long way. It seeped into their skin, grey-water and all, until they withered away without ever knowing how much was possible.

::

Years ago, Mary had packed her things carefully, slowly even, savoring each object and parcel as she placed it into her trunk. Her books were neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string (A Moste Thorough Guide to Spells, Vol. I*, Magical Drafts and Potions, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, and One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, among others), the potions kit from the apothecary nestled between pairs of stockings, and her cauldron—standard, pewter—was filled with sweets her mother had bought for her from Mrs. Corry. On top she had folded her skirts and shirts, her robes reverently perched on the very top.

Next to her trunk was a great golden cage, and within it a sleeping green parrot*, a gift from her Uncle Wigg. When she first received him ("For your 11th birthday, a very important birthday for any young witch.") he had been a horrible, shrieking creature, and her mother would have nothing to do with him.

"Mary, dear, he is such a bother that I am sure he will frighten all of the other students' owls if you bring him to school with you. You would do better with something much more sensible."

"Mamma," Mary replied, "it is my present. Uncle bought it for me and I am sure it would hurt his feelings if you replaced it with a horrible barn owl."

Their conversation proceeded in this vein for several more minutes until at last her mother relented, as long as Mary promised to keep the bird in her room and not in the main part of the house.

Mary named him Percival. She had no particular reason for this name, except at first seeing him she knew him to be a Percival, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Over the ensuing weeks, her mother came to realize that she had not heard so much as a squawk from Percival in quite some time. At first she thought it might have died and Mary, in order to preserve her pride, disposed of its body without her knowing, but when taking her weekly turn around the flat to do the dusting, she found him perched in his cage as usual, alive as ever and steadfastly silent.

Her mother might have addressed it over supper, but she did not, nor did she ever have a real desire to address it at all, considering her daughter had such a way with animals—always managing to get them to behave or do tricks at her every whim—since she was a small child. She suspected, whether wrongly or rightly (it was wrongly) that this instance was no different.

::

The morning of Mary's first voyage to Hogwarts was a flurry of activity. Their home was rather cramped but still comfortable, although it did not seem to accommodate for Mrs. Poppins' fluttering about, making sure Mary had everything she needed, as she would like to avoid wasting money on postage, and she was not much disposed to dealing with owls anyway as she found them temperamental and bity.

"Mary, we cannot hire Ministry cars. We can hardly rely on the Ministry to help us in the way of anything anymore." They did not live far from King's Cross Station.

"Well, I won't take the Floo; I'll get dust all over my things!"

Mary had already changed into her school robes, you see. Her mother would have preferred she wait to change on the train with the other children, but Mary's enthusiasm could not be hindered.

"We'll simply have to walk, my dear. It is not so far that our shoes will give us blisters."

"Could we not Apparate, Mamma?" Mary replied, worried that she would sully her new school shoes before anyone really got to see them properly.

"You have too many things. We would need a Portkey to move all of that in one trip." While this was true, Mrs. Poppins simply feared to leave her child by herself, if only for a moment. In the past few years, she had harbored a new and growing distrust of not just Muggles but of her own kind as well, and she was beginning to wonder which was the greater threat.

In reality, Mary did not have so many things to take with her to school. She had her trunk, packed with everything she would need until Christmas; Percival in his cage covered with a canvas traveling hood; and a large carpet bag that included her special things—her photographs, her jewelry, and her most favorite letters, which by now were beginning to yellow with age.

::

With her soap and hair pins packed into her profound carpet bag, Mary thought that she ought to have written to Bert. But she did not know where he was living, and she did not have an owl at her disposal anyway. She could not really even provide useful information for him, regardless, not knowing where she would end up, and suspected that she might have success finding him on her first day off anyway, for Bert, when you began to look, was really not so hard to find.

It was not as if she had not seen him in an age, it had only been a month, but it was not a month she would care to repeat, and she did not suspect (for better or for worse), that she would have any more months like it ever again.

"I shall see him on my first day off," she thought to herself, trying to force resoluteness into the idea.

Knowing Bert, he would treat things like old times and she would follow suit and pretend the same. She would watch him draw his beautiful pictures on the street and they would laugh and chat and have tea. Neither would mention harder times. In that moment, when she saw him and that large, dopey grin would spread across his face like it did the first time she'd ever met him, those dark times would not exist. They never happened. For an afternoon, she would just be Mary and he would just be Bert, and they would simply enjoy each other's company.


	2. The Great War

Thomas Poppins was a tall man with big hands and big feet. On those feet he usually wore shoes, brown, except for when he chased little Mary, who was small and quick, around their home after dinner.

He might also not properly be called Thomas Poppins if he did not connect a very distinct pair of emerald braces to his trousers, which he had received as a Christmas gift from his brother many years ago. It was his trademark appearance.

Mr. Poppins came from a Muggle family, and was the only wizard in the bunch, but between he and his brother, that was quite enough magic for the two of them, thank you very much. Perhaps it was from jealousy or just simple misunderstanding, but Thomas's brother did not think to highly of this Hogwarts that Thomas flitted off to every Fall, leaving him to shoulder the bulk of the family's financial responsibility.

It was years after Thomas had finished his time at Hogwarts (and subsequently stopped "flitting" there) when he received a letter from his brother, Robert, as he bit into his morning toast with jam.

Of course Robert had sent it through Muggle post, but for a moment Thomas was at a complete loss as to who would be sending him a letter this way when they might use the Floo or an owl.

His wife wore a confused and distasteful face as she handed him the letter, which was written on a crisp sheet of white paper and folded neatly into a compact square. It even had a stamp.

"The man said he's never brought a letter of any kind to this address—didn't even know this place existed." Belinda Poppins sneered slightly as she said this—it wasn't as though she harbored any real contempt towards Muggles, it was simply that she found their ignorance regarding the world of magic endearing and simple.

Thomas took the letter from his wife and ripped it open, reading the contents to himself:

16 February, 1916

Brother-

I must inform you that I have recently been conscripted into His Majesty's Army as an infantryman. I am not sure how much you have been keeping up with our news, but surely you must know something of Europe's current conflict, or have seen the posters in London, or, at the very least, have heard chatter about the streets. I wonder at the fact that your people have not intervened when it seems that so many lives could be saved if magic is as formidable as you have led us all to believe.

I will set off for the continent in mid-March. As you know, mother depends on me financially, and I do not think I will see my wages as a foot soldier right away. If it is possible, please see to mother's comfort while I am away. Give your wife and daughter my regards.

Your brother,

R. Poppins

Thomas could feel the coldness in his brother's letter, the words "your people" ringing in his head. Had he really become so other to him?

He had of course heard of the war that entrenched Europe. He was not so disconnected from this family that he did not read every Muggle paper he could reasonably get his hands on; he was not as apathetic as most wizards.

The Muggle news frightened him, and he told his wife little of what he read. It was riddled with horrible violence, miserable places called trenches, great machines of war that had never before been envisioned, and men being slaughtered in such numbers that the Muggle world seemed bewildered by its own capacity for killing. He could not help thinking that while Muggles might not have magic, they were now becoming more godlike than any warlock in any Muggle fairytale.

"What does Robert say?" asked his wife, pretending that she had not just read the entire letter from over his shoulder.

"He has been conscripted, it seems, and will soon sent off to the continent."

"To that horrible Muggle war?"

"Of course, Belinda, what other war is there? Don't try to sound so ignorant."

As a rule, the Ministry made an effort to stay out of Muggle conflicts. Their durations were usually short and their casualties comparatively small when one considered the death that magic might yield on this scale.

Involvement would undoubtedly cause complications for both Muggles and wizards, and with the Statute of Secrecy in 1619, their intervention would be forbidden anyway, so those with magic stopped feeling guilty about not aiding their Muggle brethren, and started to embrace it.

But at the start of the War, the magical community had been forced to reckon with a new form of Muggle warfare—a kind that went beyond tedious formations and conflicts with definitive boundaries, and instead flirted with annihilation.

For the first time since the Witch Craze in the 17th century, Muggle life was having a very real impact on the magical community. London transformed itself from a place of culture and that strange combination of tradition and progress that the English themselves might have invented, and became a machine of war, taut with concealed fear as the nation plunged into a new kind of war.

Witches and wizards first caught it from the corners of their eyes. The mood of the nation had changed. Muggles were not so ignorant now—perhaps they still were in terms of magic, but they were quickly discovering new forms of suffering.

The wizarding world saw their neighbors leave, and it became clear that many of them would not return. As much as they had tried to live separate lives—to live among Muggles but not alongside them—the reality of a global war began to insist it be acknowledged.

::

It was officially nighttime—almost eleven in the evening—at 10 Downing Street, and the Prime Minister had refused any more calls or meetings, for it had been a long day, and one he would not care to repeat. It was not everyday that the government declared war on Europe's greatest superpower.

All in all, it had been quite an exhausting day, and tomorrow would likely prove worse. If it didn't make any difference to anyone else (and it likely did, but sod it) he was going to lock the door of his office and pour himself a teeming glass of brandy.

He took out a key from his inside coat pocket and proceeded to unlock the bottommost drawer of his desk, from which he extracted a great decanter of very expensive brandy and a glass tumbler. He poured a liberal measure into his glass and took a long pull—more than most men could likely handle, but he was not unknown to enjoy a stiff drink from time to time.

As he reached for his second sip (smaller this time; he wanted to savor it) he heard a muffled cough from the corner of the room. He knew that cough.

"Hello?" he asked. He attempted to sound irritated, but he came off as weary.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles," said a frog-faced portrait in the corner of the room. "Imperative we meet. Please respond immediately. Regards, Blaine."

The Prime Minister sighed.

"Must it be now? Are you aware of the kind of day I've been having?"

"Precisely, Mr. Asquith. The Minister for Magic requests your immediate attention."

"Very well," replied Asquith, sounding quite resigned. He had experienced this same problem a couple of years before, the intrusion of this Minister for Magic, when he had barged in to share a few details regarding a certain ship in a certain ocean that had met an ill fate at the insistence of what was thought to be a very stubborn iceberg. Exercising his prerogative as Prime Minister, and because of the fact that Blaine had sworn him to secrecy and that he was really truly sorry about the whole affair, he decided not to let those rather fantastic details leave the confines of his office.

Just as he extracted another glass from his desk, the grating in the fireplace roared to life with green flames. The man that walked out was thin and dressed in well-tailored blue robes. His skin was slightly yellow in tone, perhaps jaundiced, the Prime Minister thought, poor fellow ought to see a doctor. His hair was bright white, like snow, as if he had been shocked so profoundly that his hair inexplicably turned white from root to tip. Besides his astonishingly white hair, he actually looked reasonably young, or at least too young for white hair. He did not carry anything with him and entered the room with a somber air.

"Prime Minister, it is good to see you," sighed the man. "I regret that we must meet only when crisis is afoot."

He held out his hand to the Prime Minister, who had decided that he would rather remain sitting than rise to meet his eccentric, if slightly ill-looking, visitor.

"Perhaps you do not remember my name. That is all very well; we do not meet often. Stribog Blaine, at your service, Minister for Magic."

"I remember perfectly well, thank you." This was not entirely true. He knew that the man had a funny sort of name, but he simply could not bring himself to care to remember.

"Please have a seat," he continued. "What can I do for you today? Hell of a day to drop by, if you ask me."

"Indeed, sir. Indeed. That is, in fact, what I came to discuss."

"Oh, yes?" the Prime Minister asked, not without a trace of irritation—he didn't need another man bloated with self-importance telling him how to run the country, that was his wife's job.

"Yes. You see, Mr. Asquith, our community has existed for the past three hundred years outside of Muggle awareness. While we live among you, we live separately, just outside of the picture, so to speak."

"Yes, and?" replied the Prime Minister.

"We know to a certain extent that this conflict is quickly becoming a global affair. We are not entirely ignorant of your politics, especially these days. So you must know, I must make it absolutely clear: that were you expecting the intervention or involvement of the magical community, we would have to decline. Respectfully, of course."

This was certainly not what the Prime Minister had expected to hear. However, he could not really put into words precisely what he had been expecting, so it worked out all the same.

"Intervention?" was all the Prime Minister was able to muster.

"We will not use magic to help you fight this war. We cannot help you—it would expose us, you see, it would reveal us as witches and wizards." Blaine moved uncomfortably in his seat, but continued. "It would mean the end of our community—an irreparable disruption to our lives. There are other wizarding leaders who are—right now—speaking to their Muggle counterparts, just as I am to you, telling them exactly the same thing."

"There are more of you?" The Prime Minister's mind was off in a thousand different directions, and could not focus on any one particular train of information.

"Did you think there were only wizards in England, Mr. Asquith? We are everywhere you are, though, admittedly none of us have, to my knowledge, made it down to Antarctica—a bit nippy for most of us, you see." Blaine laughed awkwardly. The air in the room had become stuffy, and the Prime Minister was clutching his brandy glass with alarming pressure.

"Do you mean to tell me," Asquith started, "that magic could, theoretically, help bring this war to a halt before it even begins?"

"It would have significant…sway as to the celerity of resolution…"

"Then it is irresponsible—reprehensible, is it not?—not to provide aid so that thousands of lives might be spared?" the Prime Minster said, his voice calm yet throbbing with barely masked anger.

Blaine did not entirely know how to respond. Perhaps it was morally "reprehensible" not to save lives whenever possible—but they were Muggles. There might be enough sensibility to allow Muggle-born witches and wizards to receive a magical education, but there was hardly enough pro-Muggle sentiment to justify intervention into a Muggle conflict. There would be no support for it—and he would be thrown out of office, a subject of ridicule. He could not face his own disgrace over a matter concerning Muggles, no matter what was and was not considered "reprehensible."

So he only said that which was true—the safe thing that did not reek with as much selfishness.

"Perhaps, sir, but you must realize that we are not the only ones with magic—if both sides have magic, then the outcome is not so transparent."

The Prime Minister looked at the Minister for Magic for a long moment, then seemed to decide that he had heard enough.

"Then we cannot expect your lot to fight alongside your countrymen?"

"No, Mr. Asquith, I am truly sorry, but you cannot."

"Then as we can have no more left to say, I would ask you to remove yourself from my office. Respectfully, of course."

Blaine walked across the room without a word and vanished in a flash of green flames, leaving the Prime Minister just as alone as he had started, but somehow emptier than ever.

It came as no real surprise, then, when Stribog Blaine was asked with much enthusiasm to remain in his position at least until the end of this horrid Muggle conflict.


	3. A Boy Named Bert

It was disdain or something like it. Perhaps mixed with suspicion and curiosity. Not hatred, but its cousin.

"Just try and pretend they aren't there, love," her mother said as they walked down Platform 9 ¾, Mary pushing her trolley along the way.

The moment they had passed through the barrier, most eyes that met them shadowed over with contempt. Still others looked curious. It was not as if the Poppinses were a family of particular renown, but none-the-less the witches and wizards shuffling their children onto the train continued to throw them looks of mistrust.

"Here's a car for you," she continued when her daughter did not respond. "It's filling up quickly. Let's get you on before it's full."

A baggage hand with a pointy face heaved Mary's things into the luggage compartment. She looked at her mother, whose eyes were tear-filled, only Mary did not know if they were tears of happiness or sadness.

"Just remember, darling, we both know he did the right thing, even if everyone else says otherwise." Her mother's face creased with concern and she swept a loose lock of hair out of Mary's eyes, bringing her hand around to cup her daughter's cheek gently and smiled. It was rare for Mary to see such a display of emotion from her mother—especially after the news several years ago—who was usually proud and withdrawn. Indeed, in the next moment, the tenderness on her mother's face retreated, and she brought her hand down from Mary's cheek to her pocket, from which she pulled out a hairpin and secured the loose lock of hair back with the rest.

"Write to me and tell me what house you're in, will you? You might use Percival if he is trained for such a thing. It would be a shame were he not, or he would be such a useless creature."

"Yes, Mamma," she said, stepping onto the train. "I will."

"Be good, Mary," her mother said as the train began to pull away. Underneath her rigid demeanor, she wanted to promise Mary years of friendship and camaraderie. But in the state of things, in truth, she could not.

::

The car was still a jumble of people as the train started moving. There were friends trying to find compartments to themselves, lone first-years hovering in the corridor wondering to themselves if it would not be too much of a bother if they were to sit in this or that compartment because everywhere else was full.

Mary, however, with her carpetbag that looked disproportionately large in comparison to her small, thin frame, stumbled upon a compartment empty but for one, which she thought odd, considering the scramble for space not feet away.

Mary heaved the sliding door open to find a tall, thin boy inside sitting alone. He had a long face and great blue eyes that still appeared quite large even though he was squinting in concentration. He wore a shirt and vest with a rather sick-looking orange tie, and a worn pair of knickerbockers. He did not seem to notice her as she stepped into the compartment. The boy was hunched over a pad of paper, and the seats next to him were covered in a hodgepodge of what appeared to be thoroughly well-used oil pastels.

Mary cleared her throat so that she might gain his attention, and he looked up at her. He had been so entrenched in his work that she thought he might be annoyed with her for disturbing him, but instead he regarded her with a welcoming smile.

"Excuse me," she started, "are you waiting for anybody else to come and sit with you or could I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

His smile faltered as she said this.

"No, I'm not waiting for anybody. Probably would've been sitting here all by myself if you hadn't have popped in."

She too frowned at this, only she couldn't think of the reason for it. All the same, she perked her lips back into a smile and sat down on the opposite seat.

"I'm Mary," she said, setting down her bag next to her.

"I'm Herbert, Herbert Bones. But most people just call me Bert." He laid down his pad of paper and held out his hand to shake, which she took shyly.

"Are you a First Year, too?" she asked.

"Oh, no. This will be my second year at Hogwarts."

Mary wondered why he wasn't sitting with any of his friends; her father had always told her that there were such great friendships to be made at Hogwarts. She chose not to press the issue.

"What House are you in, then?" she asked instead.

"Oh, me? I'm in Hufflepuff. Best House there is in my opinion."

"My mother was in Hufflepuff when she was at Hogwarts. My father was in Gryffindor. I expect I'll be in one of those—that's how it works a lot of the time, right? That's what I've heard. What Houses were your parents in?"

He promptly broke her gaze and looked out the window. "My parents didn't go to Hogwarts," he said, and ran his hand through his hair nervously. "I'm a Muggle-Born, you see."

Ah, now she was beginning to understand.

"Well, that's all right. My father was a Muggle-Born. I don't really know what all the fuss is about with Muggle-Borns, you know. My father was just as good a wizard as my mother was a witch, and she was a Pureblood. "

"Your mother was a Pureblood and she married a Muggle-Born?" he asked, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"I don't think it was without protest from her family. She doesn't talk to them anymore, except for her brother, my Uncle Wigg. He gave me a parrot for my birthday." She thought it a very silly way to end what started as a very serious sentence.

He smiled at her and she blushed, which she never did.

"Is that why no one will sit with you? Because you're Muggle-born?"

"You're hardly 'no one,' Mary…" he broke off.

"Poppins," she supplied.

"Mary Poppins," he said it with relish, savoring the consonants of her surname. "But yes, I don't think the fact that I come from a Muggle family really helps matters for me. But it's other things, too. I don't know; I don't think about it too much." As he finished speaking he scratched his chin with this fingers, which were covered in oily pigment.

"You've got…" she trailed off, pointing to her own chin.

"Oh!" he yelped. Bert rummaged through his bag for a kerchief. His face reddened deeply as he moved to wipe his chin clean. After he put the kerchief away, he continued speaking.

"Plus, there are only two other Muggle-Borns in my year, one in Ravenclaw and one in Gryffindor. Slytherin doesn't have any. I'm not surprised, really. Seems to me like Hogwarts is trying to fulfill a quota or something. It just seems that there must be a lot more Muggle-Born witches and wizards out there."

Mary didn't know one way or the other, nor had she ever really thought about it. She wasn't a Muggle-Born, her father was, and she had never really given thought to just how many other Muggle-born witches and wizards existed. In any event, her father seemed to do quite well for himself, even if she'd never met her grandparents on her mother's side because of it.

Mary shrugged. "So the other Muggle-Borns, you aren't friends with them?"

"Not really. But it's not because they're mean-spirited you see. I just don't think that blood status is the best thing to base a friendship on, Pureblood or otherwise."

There was silence for a moment and Mary looked out the window, watching the countryside whip by before she could look at any of it properly. Bert picked up his pad and a pastel and began to draw again.

"Drawing, do you do that a lot? Are you any good?"

Bert set down his things and looked at her, not annoyed, but with a confused look on his face.

"I love drawing. I do it all the time. The professors don't really like it, I suppose. They seem to think it a very Muggle sort of pastime."

"But there are lots of wizard artists."

"Maybe they just think its Mugglish when I do it. I don't draw pictures that move, but I don't really care what they think, anyway."

"Could I see," she asked, "what it is you're drawing?"

He eyed he suspiciously.

"You really want to see? You're not just going to laugh at me?"

"Why would I laugh at you?"

He shrugged noncommittally and handed her his pad of paper. On it he had drawn a crimson, smoke-chugging pastel sketching of the Hogwarts Express.

"You did this?" Mary asked, bewildered.

"It really isn't anything special."

"Are you joking? This is amazing!"

Bert reddened again and Mary handed the bad back.

"Well, I don't think it's foolish that you draw, Bert. I think that you might be a real, proper painter one day. Perhaps they'll have you painting murals on the walls of the Ministry. I should like to see those."

"You think so? You think they'd let a Muggle-Born do something like that?" Bert had a shy look about him as he shoved his sketchbook into his bag.

"I don't see why not. I'd imagine that by the time we've finished at Hogwarts, there won't be any nonsense about blood status and everybody will realize just how stupid they've been."

"I hope so," replied Bert.

Mary smiled at him as the trolley arrived at their compartment. A little, plump witch took their money and handed them the cakes and sweets they'd requested, before pushing forward to the next compartment.

Soon night fell around the train as Bert and Mary talked. They talked about silly, unimportant things. Bert answered her questions about Hogwarts and she tried to explain The Tales of Beetle the Bard once she realized an offhand comment she'd made about Babbity Rabbity and Her Cackling Stump left him with a confused expression.

Eventually they changed into their robes and Bert peeked out the window.

"There it is," he said. "There's Hogwarts."

Mary leaned over to look out the window and saw the great silhouette of Hogwarts castle. She had never seen it for real, only in drawings in her parents' books.

"It's amazing," Mary said.

"It really is, isn't it?"

The train began pulling into Hogsmeade Station and the other students in the car began making their way into the corridor so that they might be the first off of the train.

"I hope you're in Hufflepuff like me," Bert said quietly, almost in a whisper, as Mary grabbed her carpet back and stood up to exit the compartment. He heaved the strap of his bag over his chest, and placed a grey newsboy hat on his head despite the fact that he was in his Hogwarts uniform.

"Me too," she replied, and they stepped off the train together for the first time.


	4. The Fate of Mrs. Poppins

Mary carefully rolled her hair into a bun that sat neatly on the back of her head. Standing in front of a mirror in the girls' dormitory, she affixed her Head Girl badge—red and gold—to the front of her robes, taking the time to ensure it was straight.

The Common Room was empty when she entered it, most everyone having gone down for breakfast. There was no fire, owing to the warmth of the day, for it was the beginning of June, and there was something markedly different about the atmosphere: the Common Room felt far less cozy when it wasn't filled with people.

She walked down the main stairs and into the Great Hall where students poked at eggs with their forks and swallowed mouthfuls of porridge and pumpkin juice. As she sat down, an owl swooped down before her, depositing a letter and a copy of the Prophet before flying off towards the Owlry.

Dearest Mary, the letter began, written on shabby, cheap paper,

Your mother has told me she wants to see you. I told her you'll be studying hard for your NEWTs, but she insists. She doesn't think she'll live out the week, but she said the same last month. Do you think you ought to come? If Professor Black gives you leave, send word and I'll make certain my chimney is connected to the Floo this evening at five o'clock. You'll certainly be a sight for sore eyes.

With love as always,  
Bert

Mary read the letter again, admiring the careless but strangely precise nature of his writing, an attribute she always appreciated. She tucked the Prophet under her arm and a piece of toast into her mouth and found herself en route to the Headmaster's Office. There was no doubt in her mind, she thought, that she should see her mother.

She was admitted to the Headmaster's office with a flash of her Head Girl badge and when she arrived inside his office, he was sitting at his desk writing intently.

"Professor Black?" she asked, pushing the door in further.

"Yes? I'm very busy."

"Professor, it's Mary Poppins, sir…Head Girl from Gryffindor."

He looked up from the papers on his desk with his brow furrowed. He wore a confused look that savored of contempt.

"What can I do for you, Miss Poppins?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but I've just received a letter that my mother would like to see me. You see she's-"

"At St. Mungo's, oh yes, I've heard as much. Belinda MacMillan? Is she really so ill?"

"Yes, sir."

He hummed knowingly.

"You see, sir, the letter said she might not live out the week, and I'd like very much to see her."

What she would really like was to be away from Professor Black's omnipresence.

"You have your NEWTs coming up next week. You would leave your studies at a time so important?"

"To see my mother, yes."

"I must say, Miss Poppins, this does not reflect well on your academic drive, especially for Head Girl."

Mary's anger started to boil over. She'd never been very fond of Professor Black (nor had anyone), but in recent years she found his superior demeanor grating and caustic.

"I find it a bit odd, then, that you approved my appointment as Head Girl to begin with."

He gave her a menacing look. "I suppose I can hardly stop you from visiting your mother. No doubt you would find your way there one way or another."

"No doubt," she affirmed through clenched teeth.

"Very well, Miss Poppins. But know that upon your return, when you aren't taking your exams, you will be spending the remainder of your evenings at Hogwarts in detention."

Before she could argue, she thought better of it, and turned on her heel and left without a word. That evening she took the Floo from Hogsmeade.

::

At the click of the door, Phineas Nigellas Black took up his quill once more, but began a different sort of letter.

3 June 1925

Minister, he wrote,

Mary Poppins has just departed my office with the mission of visiting St. Mungo's, where her mother is ill. She says that her mother is near death. It would be wise, I think, if you sent someone to her before she passes. Belinda Poppins is undoubtedly a valuable source in your investigation, and as I know her recent illness has prevented you from taking advantage of it, it may soon be too late.

Your Servant,  
Phineas Nigellas Black  
Headmaster  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Order of Merlin, First Class

Upon finishing, he summoned an owl and sent the letter on its way to London.

::

Mary landed in the fireplace of Herbert Bones at two minutes past five in the evening.

"I think it might have taken a bit of a detour around Leeds," she said, brushing her face of ash and dust and stepping onto the rug in front of the hearth.

"Evening Prophet said most of York is down; they're diverting to other chimneys," Bert replied, taking her hand so that she wouldn't stumble.

"How is most of York down? The Floo just can't not function."

"The new muggle electrical lines they're putting up are causing interference. Bit strange, eh? First time for everything. I wonder if it'll ever have the same effect on Hogwarts."

There was a strange normality to their conversation, as if she had come to visit for a regular weekend.

"Doubt it," she said with a weak sort of chuckle.

He smiled at her. "You've a bit of dust in your hair."

"I rather hate the Floo," she announced. "Dust everywhere! Give me a moment."

She patted more dust and ash off of her skirt and walked across Bert's shabby flat. It was old and small and muggle-built. Its wallpaper was yellowing and peeling in the corners and the meager furniture that had obviously come with the rooms was rickety and dented. While the rest of the building had been wired for electricity, Bert's had not, and was instead lit with Everlasting Candles. Mary hadn't the heart to ask him whether this was because as a wizard he really didn't need electricity, or if he just couldn't afford it.

She finally found herself at the loo, where she looked in the mirror and wiped out the dust from her hair and off of her face. Perhaps it was the weak lighting of the small, windowless room, but she noticed her face looked particularly pale and tired. The year had not treated her entirely well, and to counteract her pallor, she pinched her cheeks with her thumb and forefinger to force a healthy glow.

Bert knocked on the door. "You all right in there?" he asked.

Mary opened the door. "Fine," she said, "just fine." She paused then and looked him over. She hadn't seen him since Christmas and it was now that she was getting a good look at him since having stepped out of the fire. "Don't you look dashing," she continued.

Bert's face immediately turned red. He was wearing a suit and tie of a distinctly muggle persuasion, but Mary felt he sported the look quite smartly.

"You decided not to apply to the Ministry, then," she said. It wasn't a question. If he had taken to wearing muggle clothing, he'd likely given up any attempt at respectable wizarding employment. Even she couldn't tell if there was a touch of disappointment in her voice.

"Until there's an office that actually cares about the business of muggles, I'm not entirely sure I'm welcome there. Boy, do I feel sorry for the fella who'd work there."

"You're not a muggle, though," she responded, ignoring his attempt at a humorous distraction.

"I'm as good as, Mary. You should know that more than anyone."

Mary flinched.

"Let's go visit Mother." Bert recognized a change of subject when he heard one, and he nodded his head.

"Are you staying here, then? Or taking a room at the Leaky Cauldron?" he asked, grabbing his hat.

"I thought I might stay here, if that's okay with you."

"Of course it is; I just wanted to know if we needed to take your bag with us. Do you want to dine before we go? There's a muggle place up the street, or I suppose we could go somewhere in Diagon Alley…"

She shook her head before reaching into her aforementioned large carpetbag, from which she extracted her own hat and pinned it in at a jaunty angle.

"That bag is next to bursting, Mary. You really ought to consider and Extension Charm." In return she gave him a look of half-hearted irritation, snapped her bag shut with only minimal force, and together they walked out the door and onto the dusky streets of London.

::

Healer Dobson* pushed open the door to Room 230. There were three beds: one was empty, in one lay a man Imperiused into a state of constant sleep, and in the third, next to the window, lay Belinda Poppins, who looked steadfastly out onto St. Martin's Place.

Once a beautiful woman, Belinda Poppins was now sallow and emaciated, her hair—still black as ever—existent only in clumps around her scalp.

"Mrs. Poppins," the Healer said, "your daughter is here to see you."

Belinda Poppins turned slowly from the window and looked at Healer Dobson. While her body looked frail and neglected, her eyes, bright and focused, were almost normal. There was something deeply unsettling about them, a terrible sort of awareness that seemed to cast a shadow into the yellow light of the room.

"Do you feel well enough to see her?" the Healer—a man with a very bushy mustache—continued.

She nodded and the Healer Dobson exited the room, returning moments later with Mary.

"Mary," her mother greeted in a gravelly voice. She attempted to bring up her arms in welcome, but she only managed a shrug of her shoulders. Her physical weakness was palpable, and the weariness of her mind made evident as her eyes flitted in and out of focus. Mary sat down in the chair next to her bed and smoothed out her skirts in a half-hearted attempt to distract herself from creature lying in her mother's bed.

"Mamma," Mary whispered, finally chancing to look directly at her mother, and she frowned. "Why did you not tell me you were…why didn't Bert…?"

"My dear, come over here." Mary glanced again slowly at her mother, as if the longer she took to look, the less likely she was to meet with inevitability.

"Your NEWTs are next week, are they not, darling?"

"Yes, Mamma, but-"

"You ought to be studying for them, dear, not visiting me."

"You asked for me to come. I got here this evening."

"Oh! Did I? I'm terribly sorry, dear. Give your mamma a kiss, then."

Mary kissed the hollow that was once her mother's cheek.

"What lovely hair," her mother praised. "But you should really stop wearing it up like this; it makes you look so severe."

"Mamma-"

"You ought to put it in waves. That's how it is in all the magazines. And if you just pin it under, dear, I think it would flatter your jawline."

"Mamma, please, why don't you let them help you? They can make you better. You don't have to be sick-"

"Hush, Mary," her mother said with surprising resoluteness.

"But, Mamma-"

"Did you know," her mother began, her voice again becoming rough, "that your grandfather died of a cancer of the lungs?" Her tone was disarmingly conversational.

"Your papa?" Mary asked, confused that a Pureblood wizard would ever simply let himself die of something so inconsequential as disease.

"Oh, heavens, no. Your father's father."

As a rule, Belinda Poppins only mentioned her late husband under duress. Mary's frown became even deeper, but she persisted in their conversation.

"And didn't Papa try to help him? He could have."

"Of course he tried, Mary," her mother said sounding a touch exasperated, so much that it was almost like having her mother back to normal, "but your grandfather wouldn't have any of it, and then your Uncle Robert kicked him out of the house. They didn't really talk much after that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because sometimes I think they're keeping me alive in case I change my mind, love. Oh, and do tell that kind man I am sorry I couldn't tell him all he asked; I simply couldn't remember. I feel so dreadful about it."

"Mamma, what man? Healer Dobson? What are you talking about—"

"Oh, darling," she whispered, crouching lower and so close that Mary could smell next-to-putrid nature of her flesh, "sometimes I think they've used the Imperius on me and forced me to will myself alive. There is so much forced magic in my veins, Mary, and it isn't natural. My body is fighting so hard to die."

Mary choked back a sob.

"But I'm not going to change my mind, my dearest. I'm going to see your father."

"You're going-?" It dawned on her. "Mamma, please, please stay. I need you to stay." She was now shaking with tears, and she looked up at her mother as if to beg her to stay with her.

"I don't think you don't need me," her mother said attempting to sooth her daughter. "Mary Poppins, you don't need anyone, you know."

"You can't die; I'll be all alone."

"It is better to be alone, my dear. You will do better that way."

Her eyes unfocused and she looked around the room, when her eyes finally settled back on Mary and widened with surprise.

"Tell me, darling. You never did write to say. What house did that hat sort your into? Remind me before you go back and we'll go to Diagon Alley and by you new robes; only three months at Hogwarts and you've already grown out of these." She looked at her daughter, whose hem laid a few fashionable inches above her ankles.

Mary looked at her mother with acute confusion.

"Mama, what's going on?"

"Excuse me," Mary heard from behind her. Healer Dobson had walked into the room. "Miss Poppins, might I speak with you?" She nodded, gently patted her mother's hand, and walked over to the Healer by the door.

"If we don't heal her soon, Miss Poppins, it's going to be too late," he whispered.

"I think it already is. Her body is deteriorating; what have you been doing to her?" Her voice was sharp and angry.

"We've been sustaining her bodily functions. We thought she might finally change her mind."

"Are you telling me you've used the Imperius curse? Healer Dodson, that is illegal!"

"We've not used the Imperius, just a matrix of spells to keep her alive. My point, Miss Poppins, is that the cancer will, soon enough, win the day. She won't let us intervene. If you could talk some sense into her, perhaps…"

"She won't do it. Remove the matrix."

"She'll die immediately. It's the only thing sustaining her."

"I know. She does, too, I think."

"But Miss Poppins-"

"Look at her, Mr. Dobson." She pointed over to her mother. Her body had the crumpled look of a person having lost the will to live. "She is so disoriented, she does not know where she is."

"But we could still save her! She's still young."

"Mr. Dobson, you will remove the matrix and allow my mother to die. I should hardly think you would let a Pureblood witch of such an established family die miserable and broken."

"Established?" the Healer asked.

"Belinda Poppins nee MacMillan."

The Healer's eyes widened. "Oh, yes! My apologies. I—I'll, of course. We'll make sure she's comfortable and then I'll…"

"Thank you," Mary said finally with coolness in her voice, and she walked towards the door. In looking at her mother, she could not distinguish what gave her such resolve. She was a pitiful sight, and her mother a proud woman, a fact that made the woman who sat in the bed the less her mother. Perhaps alone was better, because she had been as much for so long already, and it would not make much difference now. And she had Bert, who was company enough.

"Will you not stay with her, Miss Poppins?"

"No," she replied standing in the doorway, looking between Bert in the corridor and Healer Dobson at the side of her mother's bed. "No, I daresay she is already gone."


End file.
